


Unfriendly Fire

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Couch Cuddles, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Episode Fix-It: s03e03 His Last Vow, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Top Sherlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary shot John in the empty house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfriendly Fire

The gunshot was loud in the narrow, empty house. John grunted as the bullet tore into him a heartbeat later. Immediately the lights came up. John looked down at the blood staining his shirt. Final proof, as if he needed more. Mary reached him first. At least she’d been a nurse and her hands knew what they were doing. Sherlock was there moments later, squeezing his other shoulder. “John, John. I’m sorry.”

John smiled at him. Eyes only for Sherlock. “It’s all right,” he said softly. His eyes slipped closed and he passed out.

When John slowly came awake, it was to the beep of machines. He knew this feeling, the way his shoulder lay immobilized on the bed. Only this time it was the other shoulder. Slowly he opened his eyes and was surprised to find Greg the one keeping vigil by his side.

When he woke up after being shot in Afghanistan there had been no one. 

Greg smiled and squeezed his hand. “Sherlock had internal bleeding himself. He wanted to stay, so we got you two a double.” He stood and pushed a curtain aside. Sherlock looked pale in the bed, but John supposed he didn’t look much better. “You’ll both recover.”

“Mary?” asked John. His voice sounded raw and raspy.

“Arrested for attempted murder. Two counts.” 

John closed his eyes a moment, fighting to stay conscious. “She thought I was Sherlock.”

“It’s still two counts. Rest, John. We’ll be here when you wake up again.”

John closed his eyes and let himself pass out again.

When he woke the next time there was the rustle of papers. Smiling, he looked towards Sherlock’s bed. He had the days news spread out all around him and the TV on, but muted. Sherlock’s head snapped up. “You’re awake.”

“Obvious,” grinned John, trying to sit up a bit. “You’re doing better?”

“Yes. As long as I don’t do anything foolhardy, they say I may be out of the hospital in less than a week.” Sherlock met his eyes. “Magnussen is still a threat.”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” said John, without hesitation.

Sherlock’s look softened. “Just rest, for now. You’ll be happy to know that this wound wasn’t so bad as your first one. The bullet was partially deflected.”

“Good. I’ll be right as rain in no time. Greg said they arrested Mary?” Sherlock nodded, folded up one of the papers and tossed it across the gap and onto his bed. John opened it to read the article. They slipped into companionable silence, as they so often did. And that was what Greg found when he came by a little later.

“Good to see both you lads up and about,” he said. “I was told to bring you this.” He took out a folder from his bag and dropped it on Sherlock’s bed. “And I thought you might want your laptop, John.” Greg set it on his bed.

“Thank you,” said John, for both of them.

“Need anything else, just call me.” Greg pat John’s foot through the blankets and left them alone.

Sherlock huffed as he read the file. “Mycroft,” he muttered.

“What’s he up to this time?” John was pleased to see the laptop could find the hospital wifi.

“It has to do with Magnussen. We had a plan. Mary may have just moved it up a bit.” Sherlock sounded annoyed. But that was any time he had to deal with his brother.

“Were you going to fill me in on any of it?” asked John, more tired than anything else.

“The original plan was to tell you about Mary that night. I didn’t expect her to shoot you.” Sherlock shifted the papers.

“Technically she wanted to shoot you. Again.” John looked over at Sherlock. “I know you died on the table. But you came back.”

Sherlock worried his lilp, clearly giving careful consideration to his next words.”You asked for one more miracle,” he said softly.

John wished he could reach over and take his hand. “I’m glad you did,” he said instead.

**

Sherlock was released about a week later. John a few days after that. He took a cab back to Baker Street and looked up at it for a moment before pushing open the door. John’s arm was in a sling and he still moved slowly. He wentup the stairs and pushed open the door to the flat and found Sherlock hard at work at something on the table.

Some things didn’t change. John smiled softly and turned his back to Sherlock, carefully trying to ease his jacket off his bad shoulder. Then suddenly Sherlock was there, helping him with his coat and hanging it up. “Does it hurt?”

“Not as bad as the first time and they gave me something for the pain before I left. There’s some pills in my jacket pocket in case I need them later. John looked up at Sherlock. “Thanks.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. A real one, before heading back to the table. John went to his chair and picked up the paper. Everything was back where it belonged.

A short time later Mrs. Hudson appeared with tea and sympathy. She talked about how nice it was to have them both here again and how glad she was that John had moved back in. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, but the detective said nothing. Well, not like he was going to go anywhere else. This was home, after all.

Dinner was provided by Mrs. Hudson too. Sherlock still wasn’t really talking, finishing up some notes as he ate. John took a pain pill as they finished and moved to the sofa. To his surprise, Sherlock came and set next to him. He looked at John and slowly, carefully, took his hand.

John smiled and leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock sighed softly and shifted down to rest his head on John’s unwounded shoulder. After flipping the telly on, Sherlock put an arm around him, rubbing his hand down his side.

**

It was a few days later that Sherlock told him part of the plan. They had to go to Appledore and find Magnussen’s files. John nodded, ever the soldier. However crazy this was, John would willfully follow Sherlock into it. They wouldn’t make their move right away, hoping to lure Magnussen into a false sense of security.

Life became a shadow of Before. They attended to other cases. Sherlock experimented and forgot the milk. John blogged and drank far too much tea. But sometimes at night they’d sit together on the couch and watch crap telly or the late news. John would hold his hand and Sherlock would lean against him and they wouldn’t speak, as if acknowledging whatever this was would shatter the fragile peace.

And sometimes when they parted for the night, John would draw Sherlock down for a gentle kiss. Or Sherlock would stop what he was doing to pull John close. He’d go up to his room and lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder what he was doing. Or an hour or so after falling asleep he’d hear the lonely sound of the violin and tears would come to his eyes that he refused to shed. 

If, in the morning, they both seemed a bit haggard and tired, neither of them mentioned it, while John made the tea and Sherlock got in his way and they both hopped for the phone to buzz with a case.

He never even really thought about Mary.

There was the occasional stray thought, of course. But for the most part, John could pretend that the last few years had simply been a bad dream, and that things had returned to whatever passed as normalcy for them.

**

Christmas came and John found himself at Sherlock’s parent’s house. Something was brewing, that was for certain. Sherlock asked him to bring his gun, and he doubted it was because of some weird uncle. Mycroft seemed even stiffer than usual, but it wasn’t until John came out of the bathroom to find everyone drugged that he really realized what was going on. Appledore.

Magnussen was waiting for them. He smiled that same oily grin, inviting them in. John saw the video and could taste the smoke in his lungs. And he knew, as if he needed one final bit of proof, just what Sherlock thought of him. But they said nothing, could say nothing, especially not in front of this snake of a man.

He smiled at Sherlock and John. “Look how much you care about John Watson. It seems the Holmes brothers are not so uncaring as they believe themselves to be.”

The files didn’t exist. For once in his life John doubted. Not Sherlock, or course, but that this could really work, that they could really bring this man down. 

It didn’t occur to him that Magnussen had mentioned both brothers until after it was over and he was being taken away from Appledore by one person, while Sherlock was handcuffed and taken another direction. Mycroft was watching Sherlock, posture as stiff as ever. But John could see something in his eyes.

Alone, John walked back into Baker Street. He suddenly didn’t know if he had the strength to stand in the kitchen and put the kettle on. Somehow he did it anyway. And to his surprised there was a note underneath the kettle:

“John,” it read. And Christ, Sherlock’s handwriting was atrocious. “If you’re reading this then, it’s safe to assume you’re alone. Quite probably I’ve been arrested. There were three targets the day I jumped. Today there were two. I can’t expect you to understand, you’re as dull as the rest of them some days. But I think you do understand that sometimes, one must do their duty.”

He stared at it a long moment, then shoved it in his pocket as the kettle came to boiling. He fixed his tea and retreated to his chair to drink it, staring at the emptiness where Sherlock should be sitting.

**  
Justice could move swiftly when it wanted to. Mycroft himself came to Baker Street to inform John that Sherlock was being sent to Eastern Europe on a matter of national security. John scoffed and shook his head.

“It is what’s best, John.” said Mycroft evenly.

“What’s best?” John rounded on him, anger boiling up. “You’re his _brother_ Mycroft. Can’t you do anything?”

“I assure you, Doctor. I am doing what I can.” Mycroft’s tone never changed, but his eyes glanced out the window.

“Well it’s not bloody good enough. You’re sending him away.” John took a step closer.

Mycroft’s eyes went back to him. “It is far better than a murder charge. I do not say this easily or often, but you will simply have to trust me, John Watson.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He did not step back. “It was you, wasn’t it. Magnussen had something on you. That’s why you couldn’t go against him. That’s why Sherlock shot him.”

“He could have shot him for any number of reasons,” said Mycroft, not rising to the bait. He tucked his umbrella under his arm. “I will let you know when he is scheduled to leave.”

John watched him go. Trust him. He shook his head. He wasn’t sure he’d ever trusted anyone less.

**

Only a few days later he was standing next a plane. Waiting. Watching. Sherlock turned to his brother and asked to speak to John privately. John could see the pain in his eyes. The words unspoken. Now was not the time or place.

Perhaps Sherlock sensed it too. He made a joke, at the last moment. They shook hands. Sherlock climbed the stairs. John resisted the urge to salute the plane as it took off, instead got into the car to head back to Baker Street. He hadn’t even been permitted to see Sherlock since his arrest. He scrubbed his hands through his hair. Was it really over?

The car didn’t move. John wondered if the driver was waiting for something. He raised his head and tried to find the plane in the clouds. There. It was turning around? Holding his breath, John watched it approach the landing strip. By the time it touched down he was out of the car. Mycroft stood a few feet away, leaning against his own car, mobile in his hands.

John took a breath and walked over. “You did it, didn’t you? Whatever made the plane turn around.”

Mycroft shrugged and put his mobile away. “It seems Moriarty has made a reappearance.”

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out again. John blinked as he caught a glimpse of the caller ID. The plane was pulling up and the stairs were being taken to it. 

“Yes, I am aware,” said Mycroft to his mobile. Smiling a bit, John walked over to the stairs, knowing that Mycroft had allowed him to see it.

Sherlock practically ran down the stairs. His eyes were red-rimmed and teary. John caught him in his arms, hugging him tightly. Sherlock kissed his cheek before looking up at his brother. "Strangest thing," said Mycroft. "James Moriarty has reappeared."

"Strange indeed," said Sherlock. "We'll get right on it, of course ."

"Of course." Mycroft gestured at the car. 

John waited until the were in the car and driving away before he asked. "How long have they been together?"

"Since about a year before we met," said Sherlock. "But my brother has always been reticent about his goldfish."

"Goldfish?" John looked at him. 

Sherlock gave a private smile. 

John shook his head. "So that's why Mycroft didn't come to the wedding."

Sherlock took his hand. "You didn't invite him."

"Wouldn't have stopped him if he wanted to." John squeezed the cool grip. "Guess that explains why Greg was drinking so much." 

Sherlock inclined his head. "In trying to protect him he only made himself more vulnerable."

"Well you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" John pulled him in for a kiss. 

They pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock still held John’s hand as they got out and headed up the stairs. John expected Sherlock to pull away and go right to the computer, or turn on the telly, or well, do anything having to do with the case. After all, this was Moriarty. Instead Sherlock turned to him, cupped his cheek and kissed him deeply. John’s knees almost went weak, but he pulled back and looked into the pale blue eyes. “Case?”

“Sod the case, John,” said Sherlock, leaning in to kiss him again, tongue sliding against the seam of his mouth until he parted his lips. Hunger evident on the way he drew the smaller man close, hand possessive around his hips.

“God,” moaned John against that wicked mouth. How long had he wanted this? Sherlock was steering them towards the bedroom. John went as willingly as he’d let Sherlock lead the waltz. Until he’d laughed and realized he needed to learn to lead. But that was all behind them. Mary was in prison, his marriage annulled and the only one he wanted in his arms.

They broke apart once they crossed into the room, tugging at clothes and buttons and zips until they were both naked. The paused and stared at one another. John’s hands found the bullet scar on Sherlock’s chest. There were other scars too, faded. Probably from when he’d been gone, if he had to guess. 

Sherlock’s hands found the scars on his shoulders. The Afghanistan scar still the far worse one physically. The newer one worse mentally. Carefully, Sherlock lay John back in the bed, moving over him, watching his face. For once in his life he looked cautious, uncertain.

John smiled and scoot back a little further, letting his legs fall open. “I want this, Sherlock. I’ve wanted this a very long time.”

Nodding, the detective reached into his bedside drawer and came up with lube. He pulled out a condom as well, hesitating.

“It’s fine. We’ll both get tested. I think we’re both clean, but let’s not take the chance, okay?” John ran a soothing hand down Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock nodded again and put the condom on the bed, fumbling with lube as his hands trembled. Gently John took the bottle from him and opened it. He watched his face as he handed it back. Sherlock kissed the inside of a thigh and coated his fingers.

John moaned softly and arched up against him as Sherlock gently probed his hole. Carefully he pressed one finger inside, watching John’s face as he thrust. John’s eyes fell shut and he spread himself wider, welcoming him, mumbling encouragement. Sweat beaded on his brow as he moved his body in time with the long fingers.

Before long there was a second finger. “Good, Sherlock. That feels so good,” praised John, forcing his eyes open to look down at the detective. He’d never seen his eyes blown so dark. Months of kissing and cuddling and simply being for one another had come down to this.

“Fuck me,” breathed John.

Sherlock bit his lip, but moved up, wiping his hand and rolling on the condom. His fingers were steadier as he added more lube, but he almost looked like his strength would fail him when he shifted and placed both hands on John’s sides.

“Here,” said John. “Lay down.” He got Sherlock onto his back and moved over him, guiding Sherlock into him with mingled groans. After a few thrusts, Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and rolled them over, moving faster now.

“It’s okay, you won’t hurt me,” said John, carding a hand through the mass of curls.

Sherlock leaned in and kissed him again. John wrapped his legs around the narrow waist, encouraging him deeper. Groaning against his lips, Sherlock reached down to take John’s thick cock in hand.

“Yes, God yes,” moaned John, moving with him. This couldn’t last long. Not the way they’d been slowly coming together for months. Sherlock came first, John right after, both of them panting their orgasm into the other’s shoulder. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, but slipped out and down so that he could rest his head on the doctor’s chest, as if trying to memorize his heartbeat. John smiled and ran his fingers through damp curls. “I love you.”

The detective froze and John thought perhaps he’d made a mistake. But then Sherlock raised his head and looked into John’s eyes. “I love you too.”

John smiled at him and Sherlock settled his head back down. There were still more cases to solve, but for now, at least they had each other. And that was all that was important.

**Author's Note:**

> much thanks to guixonlover87 for encouragement.
> 
> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


End file.
